The trees have succumbed to
spring’s firm grip,
allowing lacy flowers
to decorate their awkward branches.
And a humming bird prods
willing apple blossoms
searching for the remaining sweet sips,
which have been forgotten
by the droves of bees.

What if I were to call
these frail flowers masculine?
Would this change the meaning and
make this image deeper,
more sexually charged?
Would supple petals become stiff,
and the hummingbird wince
when forced to swallow sour nectar?

Flowers are merely sex organs;
the sky splits open and
they crumble.


The vinyl hasn’t changed,

it’s still uncomfortable, sticky,
and has the lingering odour of people
(I will never know).

The motion— jerky— erratic.

The frosted windows— still fogging from human
heat, though the temptation to curl my hand
up, press it against the cool condensation,
then peel my warm fist— carefully— away, and
tickle fingertips across the cool surface
drawing awkward toes,
no longer tempts me.

There is no longer a need, nor is there space,
for imprints of premature feet.


A tribute to Elizabeth Siddal

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Slowly, she pulls on the heavy white gown,
which has grown damp and dull.
Her pale legs dip into the marble bathtub.
She stifles a hoarse cough,

as she lowers herself into the maze
of white layers that drift upwards
attempting to escape.

“You are truly her, dear,
down to the last detail,”
he whispers as his dark eyes travel
across her porcelain face,

and down to her rose coloured
nipples which peek through the
now off-white fabric.

Her wet tongue touches cracked lips, and
the craving begins to take hold.
“What flowers will I hold today?”
she questions, occupying her mind.

His muscular hand reaches towards her,
pushing her head down into the ice-cold water.
Her brittle hand reaches
as she gasps at air, and

red tendrils drift around,
threatening to garrotte her.

“Violets, crownet weeds and poppies, dear,”

he smiles as she struggles to breathe.
“I love you,” she says hoarsely,

and no one listens.


They’re almost here;
you can feel the tension.
It’s been mounting since the first day
that mound of snow in my back yard
began to melt: a mound so monstrous
that it needed to lean against the length
of my house’s brick belly
to heave up its great weight.

That was five weeks ago.

It’s not so much that I want the leaves
to come back(though it would be nice)—
it’s simply that the trees are tired of being naked
and you can tell.